


Face Au Soleil

by OriksPix



Category: Versailles (TV 2015)
Genre: Angst, Brother/Brother Incest, Incest, M/M, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-07-23 01:09:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7460694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriksPix/pseuds/OriksPix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever since his bout of illness, the king was casting suspicious eyes over all the court, including his own brother. Philippe had bitterly convinced himself of this. Little did he know that Louis's gaze rested on him in a different way. (Set during episode 8 and later).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Inescapable

**Author's Note:**

> I ship it so hard and am in need of fic so I took matters into my own hands. This show is the high-budget soap opera period piece involving pretty men in long hair and laces that I've always wanted.

This palace was a prison.

They were trapped in a gilded cage that had yet to have all of its pieces set in place. Philippe sometimes felt as if the very air of Versailles were slowly suffocating him, filled as it was with the hot and useless gossip of the court, the irritating whispers of the servants and guards held in the corners of every room, and the elaborate sun carvings etched everywhere as a constant reminder that the king was watching them all.

Philippe was certain that his brother's eyes had strayed to him very often as of late. He could feel Louis' gaze on him from his high perch during mass. Seeking him out in the crowd at court. Boring past Henriette to look at him during supper. Those infuriatingly bright blue eyes whose colour mirrored his own, piercing him until Philippe believed he felt real pain in his chest.

The king's recent bout of illness had brought out his paranoia; he saw nothing but treacherous shadows at every turn. It made Philippe ill to think that he had been cast into the same pit of suspicion as others who dared to voice their dissent. Did Louis feel no loyalty to him as a brother? Had he not proven himself both on the bloody battlefield and among the ruthless courtiers? And at Philippe's every attempt to grow, Louis cut him down at the root. He could never be allowed to overshadow the sun. 

Perhaps Philippe had not helped himself by barging into a private council meeting, demanding to know why Henriette was being sent away so soon after her miscarriage. Louis had looked at him, stern and cold, accused him of being jealous that she was being given a role he coveted. The declaration had chilled him to the core.

Jealousy was an emotion he was well acquainted with. He had felt it from the moment he was old enough to understand what elevated his brother above all others. 

_You will support him in all that he does. He shall be your king one day_ , were the words he had heard over and over. Repeated to him by his teachers, his peers, even his own mother. He had no designs to become king, yet he craved to step out of the role of king's brother. To be seen as a separate entity with his own desires and musings. 

Louis always had a way of making him feel both beloved yet left in the dark. When they were children, he would constantly remind Philippe of all of the things that _he_ would do as king, what _he_ would change for France. The world would bow down to _him_. Philippe would have to help him with the boring bits, as was his duty. Keeping an eye on the royal treasury, putting an end to the nobles' petty squabbles, that sort of thing. That was when he would curl up in his bed, twisting the sheets in his little fists as the only outlet for his anger. 

But then afterwards Louis would always bring him along on their next make-believe adventure, where Philippe would be given an equal role as they sailed the stormy seas of their shared bathtub, or slayed the fiercest dragon in the land (a younger but no less patient Bontemps) and fairly divided its treasure between them (a handful of sweets from his pocket). Louis really did want him, he thought. He could not sail a ship or kill monsters all on his own. In those moments, Philippe felt that they had a true bond, held together by a thin but solid thread that would never break.

These days he found the thread to be frayed, weathered, after years of constant tugging and pulling between them. Yet it kept them bound, frail as it was, hanging on by a few strands, for he was weak to his brother's will. And so he remained in the gilded cage of Versailles.

“You have been staring out that window for well over fifteen minutes now.”

Philippe felt arms wrap around his waist and the warm weight of the Chevalier's chin atop his shoulder.

“What could possibly be holding your attention so diligently?” his lover prodded, “It can't be my cousin Sophie wandering over there. That dress colour does not catch the eye. Perhaps it's the Comte de Guiche over by the fountains there. He certainly is looking ravishing today—”

Philippe held up a hand and the Chevalier fell silent. He pointed at two men leisurely strolling side by side, conversing as if they had all the time in the world. As if there wasn't a small troupe of guards marching diligently behind them. 

“Ah…” The Chevalier clucked his tongue. “The king is with that one again. What's his name… Jean? Jacques?”

“He would rather confide in the gardener than in his own brother,” Philippe spoke through barely opened lips, “How am I to react to this?”

The Chevalier guided his hips, turning him away from the window and the sight that plagued him so.

“You are jealous again, my darling.” He pinched a stray strand of Philippe's hair between his fingers, gently moving it aside. “Any time you see someone who has his ear, you get like this.”

“I know him better than anyone here. I can help him where he most needs it. And yet still he keeps me in the dark. Now with this latest scheme of sending my wife off to-” he waved an impatient hand, “-To somewhere dangerous without even consulting me, I feel like he's pushing me away even further.”

The Chevalier ran a hand up his back, well used to his lover's fits of fraternal melancholy by now. He knew the touches most likely to soothe, the words that would, for a time, lay a balm over Philippe's wounded pride.

“When he was ill, I feared that he would…” Philippe's voice died in his throat. He could not say the words. As if bringing life to them would somehow cause them to come true. He swallowed visibly. “I thought perhaps then, he would see who truly stood by him. I was mistaken yet again. There is room for none in his circle but himself.”

“He gave me back to you. Surely that proves he cares for you, considering the gravity of my crime.” The Chevalier paused. “I know that you have not completely forgiven me, but I only went along with this plot because I was threatened. You know that, don't you?”

Philippe looked at his lover, eyes flitting from side to side. The usually confident Chevalier's gaze was open and quivering, a rare and startling sight. The pain of his betrayal still surfaced, raw and fresh. Yet Philippe did not have the strength to cast his beloved aside. Without the Chevalier, he had no other who saw past his rank. No other who could fulfill him so completely and calm the storms so often whipped up by his brother.

“I know,” he murmured, cupping his lover's cheek. 

The Chevalier smiled, satisfied, and leaned in for a kiss. They nipped at each other uninterrupted for a time, until the chamber doors opened and a flurry of maids hurried inside. Henriette followed after them, pointing here and there at her various possessions, instructing them on what to pack. Philippe's jaw tightened, eyeing each working maid as if they were spies bent on attacking at any moment. The Chevalier, sensing the tension thickening in the air and never one to linger in such an atmosphere, softly bit Philippe's jaw, followed by a final peck.

“I'll leave you to your marital comforts, shall I?” he whispered.

As he passed by Henriette, he bowed his head, mouth curved into a feral grin. She ignored him and marched into the bedroom. Philippe quickly followed and pushed the doors shut to keep the maids out of earshot.

“You shouldn't have to go,” he said quietly. There was no strength of conviction in his voice, not after they had already had this conversation. He knew there was no stopping her, yet he could not help but try one last time.

Henriette turned around, her arms cradling an ornate white box with swans carved on its lid. It had been a wedding gift from Louis, presented to her with a confident smile as she had marveled at it, wide-eyed. She held it close to her chest, like a precious treasure.

“I have already decided,” she said, “I want to help France in any way I can.”

“You want to win him back and you believe that this will recapture his favour.”

Henriette slid the box into her trunk with slow care. “Please, do not start with that again.”

Her words came out in a long sigh, one of exhaustion uncharacteristic of her young years. Philippe ached as he looked at her. She kept the loss of her child buried well beneath her many satin layers, especially so from him. He remembered the bright and cheerful girl he had often played with as a child, the memory of her barely visible in the pale and melancholy statue his wife had now become. They were both fools for Louis in their different ways, yet they suffered for it just the same.

“Is all of this my fault?” Philippe wondered aloud. He gently grasped her shoulders and pulled her close. He could see the dark circles under her eyes and feel the foreign clamminess of her skin where once she had been summer warmth.

“Is it because I could not love you as I should?”

Henriette placed her hands on his, stroking the back of them with her thumbs. She gave him a sad smile.

“We are both to blame then, for I could not do the same,” she said. 

They stayed close, finding a spark of comfort in this rare moment alone. The muffled voices of the maids outside ceased, though neither noticed the newfound silence. It was the sudden creaking of the bedroom doors opening that finally broke the spell. When Philippe turned to see who the intruder was, his stomach dropped.

Louis had his arms flung out on either side of the door handles, peering at him with that burning gaze. He was smiling.

“I would speak to you alone, brother.”


	2. The Rules of Etiquette

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter fudges canon events a tad and I used a bit of dialogue from Louis and Philippe's conversation when Philippe is in the bath in episode 8.

The walk from the duke’s chambers to the king’s meant striding past a vast number of people along the way. The curtsies and quiet mumbles of acknowledgement trailed behind them with every step they took. Philippe would have been content to speak in his own rooms, but of course his brother had to make a show of appearing in front of the courtiers as often as possible. He was like a strutting peacock.

Bontemps was the only one guarding the chamber doors when they arrived. He let them in with a curt bow, no doubt resuming his silent vigil once the doors closed behind them.

Louis’ bedroom was gilded from ceiling to floor in ornate details. It almost hurt the eyes to look upon it, so densely covered as it was in floral patterns and carved cherubs. ‘Something that would charm Apollo himself’ had been the instructions given to the architect Le Vau. Even in his own bed, the man surrounded himself with the painted admiration of mythical figures.

Louis fit right into the environment he created. Today he was dressed in light green and gold, an ever-bright contrast to Philippe’s preferred darker tones. He paced slowly across the length of the room, two fingers sweeping the top of the railing that encircled his bed.

“You are angry with me,” he said. 

Philippe suppressed a flare of irritation. “Is that why you brought me here? Did you want confirmation of my displeasure?”

“You are angry with me for sending your wife to England. She now has a purpose in life. You do not.” Louis lifted his fingers from the railing and looked at them with a small frown. He turned back to his brother, flicking off the dust he had collected. “I’m here to give you one.”

“A job.”

“Yes,” Louis replied with a grin.

He proceeded to fill his brother in on his need for court-wide etiquette, of a means to wrangle the nobles in line, to teach them how to behave at Versailles.

“From now on, I want everyone to know their place and their status,” he went on as Philippe listened, hands clasped behind his back, unmoving. “I want every minute of every day to be structured. From now on, everyone must abide by the same set of rules.”

“Including the king?” Philippe couldn’t help but ask, brows raised.

Louis ceased his pacing. His smile was confident, a light quirk of the lips that did not quiver. “Especially the king.”

He stepped closer to Philippe, leaning in as if to whisper a secret in his ear like he had often done when they were children. “And who better to control the king than his own brother?” he murmured, his breath sending a shiver down Philippe’s neck.

Louis had always done this; brought their faces so close together to intimidate him, pinning him down with those blazing eyes until he thought he would suffocate. Even now, Philippe could feel his breath leave him.

“I want you write out the rules for me,” Louis continued, words hot and ghosting across his face, “Dictate how we all will live from now on.”

“Are you mocking me?” The anger that had faded returned in a white hot flash and Philippe stepped back. “This is what you would have me do?”

“You think it is beneath you?”

Philippe turned away, closing his eyes against the headache he prayed would not come. “I think you would have me look like a fool,” he said tightly, “What possible purpose could this serve?”

“You don’t believe this job to be equally as important as Henriette’s.” Louis grasped his shoulders and turned him around. Reluctantly, Philippe opened his eyes, subjecting himself to his brother’s unblinking stare once more.

“We have enemies abroad who wish to invade us,” Louis said, “William of Orange will try to turn England against us. That is why I sent Henriette there, as she knows her brother better than any of my diplomats. We also have enemies at home who wish to depose me, some no doubt in this very palace. That is why I need you here. I need your help to keep the nobles in line. You would both be doing your part to protect France.”

Philippe’s mind cast about wildly for a retort. He could see the sense in his brother’s plotting, hard as it was to swallow. His pride, however, remained on his tongue, ready to decline Louis’ request the moment he opened his mouth.

The sudden knock at the chamber doors stopped him from speaking. Both of them turned around as Louis called out to enter. Bontemps’ face appeared in the small space he had opened between the doors.

“Sire, the financial council meeting cannot wait any longer,” he said.

“Very well.” 

They left the bedroom, Philippe ready to make a beeline for his own quarters, thinking only of the wine he wished to drown himself in at the moment. A firm hand on his shoulder stopped him in his tracks and he waited with bated breath.

“Think on it, brother,” Louis spoke into his ear, “I’m counting on you.”

-

He spent the evening in Henriette’s sitting room, watching her fiddle with her hairbrush. He knew she was afraid, even as she tried not to let it show. She had rid herself of even the smallest tangle by this point, but still she kept brushing mechanically. Her eyes were staring past her vanity mirror, gazing into a hazy past or future that Philippe could only guess at. He leaned forward and tucked a loose strand behind her ear. She blinked and looked at his reflection hovering over her shoulder.

“Everything will be alright,” he said softly.

The smile she gave him did not reach her eyes. “I know.”

Her departure early the next morning was quiet move, without any fanfare. It was meant to look like a recuperating trip to Vichy, and thus neither the king nor his courtiers were present. 

Instead of seeing his wife off, Philippe was still in bed, mind plagued with too many thoughts for him to contemplate sleep. The Chevalier, who rarely had as many concerns, was snuggled up to his side and plunged into deep slumber. His warm weight was a welcome comfort and Philippe held him close, unwilling to part from their nest.

Alas, duty saw fit to rouse him from bed a few hours later, dressed and fed and ready to wade the uncertain waters of Versailles’ court. His brother’s request still weighed on his mind, nagging at him any time he locked eyes with one of the nobles. They all had their secrets and their scandals, hidden behind silent walls save for the few cracks and leaks of gossip talk. Louis had already had attempts on his life, and doubtless would have more. Philippe wondered whether this etiquette plan was as foolhardy as he had initially thought. How easy would it be to monitor the entire court?

Louis gave him a glance or two whenever they were together, but did not bring up the subject, much to his relief. His indecision still roiled inside of him, like uncomfortable waves of seasickness. It all seemed easier to push it out of his mind.

He should have known that Louis would not let the matter rest for long. He walked in one evening as Philippe was in his bath, sipping on wine and plucking away at a cream-filled pastry. 

“Want to catch me when I can’t run away?” he asked, twirling his glass, “Well… I suppose I could run away but I doubt you’d want me to cause an indecent display.”

Louis chuckled. “You mean like when we were children and I dared you to run naked through the halls of the château at Saint-Germain?”

“I had a hellish time wrangling myself out of the dress Mother put me in.” Philippe took a sip of wine and grimaced. “Of course, I was the only one who got punished. Nobody chastised you for goading me into it.”

Louis knelt beside his tub and clasped onto the golden rim. He looked at his brother, solemn.

“I’m sorry.”

Philippe ‘s glass froze before it met his lips. He set his wine down and quickly cleaned his left ear with his pinky. “Beg pardon?”

“I’m sorry,” Louis repeated with a small smile, “I should not have made you do it.”

Philippe gingerly lifted his glass again. Another surprising declaration and he was afraid he’d spill wine into his bathwater.

“Well, I suppose a twenty-year late apology is better than never. Anything else you would like us to make peace with?”

“You think I don’t trust you and it hurts me. Brother, listen.” Louis reached out and clasped Philippe’s arm, paying no heed to his soaked sleeve. “You are one of the few people in this palace that I trust completely.”

His hold on Philippe’s arm was gentle but unrelenting. His lace cuff floated atop the water, fanned out like a swan’s wing, rippling gently. Still, he did not remove his hand.

“You have a funny way of showing it,” Philippe said, swallowing past the sudden tightness in his throat. 

Louis sighed, dropping his hand straight into the water with a splash.

“You’re getting all wet. Don’t ruin your lace.” Philippe plucked at his cuff, delicately lifting it above the water. “Bontemps is overworked enough as is.”

“I set you the task of writing up the etiquette of Versailles, and I would not give that duty to anyone I didn’t trust.” Louis pulled out his arm and wrung out his sleeve, huffing. “You’ve never been shy of voicing your criticisms or your displeasure. I know you are honest, more so than many are around me. It is those that grovel the lowest at my feet that I am wary of.”

He paused, fingers braced on the edge of the tub, looking into the water. The only sounds to be heard were the small drips of water falling from his sleeve.

“When I was at the height of my illness, I thought that I was going to die,” he said softly, “Did you think that as well?”

Philippe recalled that perilous time with a lurch in his stomach. In all his anger, his bitterness, never had he wished for his brother’s death. The very thought chilled his core.

“I feared it,” he admitted hoarsely.

“And if I had died, what would you have done then?” Louis looked at him openly, every muscle in his face slack, void of a mask. It was the least guarded he had ever seemed around Philippe, and it disconcerted him. How was he to counter this side of his brother?

“I couldn’t even bring myself to think of it,” he said, all bite suddenly drained from him. He sensed that the conversation had taken a different turn. Now was not the time for pointed jabs. 

Louis smiled at him then, genuine and warm. Philippe suddenly felt hot in his cooling bath. It was the wine, he told himself. It must be going to his head.

“I believe you, brother.” Louis drummed his fingers against the tub, lips pursed in thought. 

“I saw things when I was ill, you know. Fever dreams while I was awake, like horrible paintings come to life. Eagles trying to peck my eyes, saints clamouring for my blood. Everywhere I turned, all I saw were my enemies, waiting until I was at my weakest to strike.”

“Sounds horrible,” Philippe muttered, burrowing lower into the tub.

“Do you know what else I saw?”

“What?”

Louis moved in close until they were nearly nose to nose. “I saw a vision of you, as well. You pierced past the nightmares, bathed in light. I thought you were Apollo descending from his chariot at first.”

He cupped Philippe’s cheek, eyes shining brighter than the flickering candles around them. Philippe was still as a statue, scarcely daring to draw breath.

“You told me to weed out the snakes in the grass of Versailles. To see who my true friends were. And I realized then, brother.” Louis ran his fingers through Philippe’s wet hair. “I realized that you are the one I must rely on to help me with this task.”

“All thanks to a fevered vision of me?” Philippe chuckled to mask the shivers coursing through him. Louis’ proximity was almost maddening coupled with this ludicrous tale.

“Think what you like, but I believe that this was a sign for me to entrust you with this. Write the rules of etiquette for me, brother.” Louis’ eyes widened slightly, pinning him down like an arrow. “Will you do this?”

Philippe wanted to say no. Wanted to curse this damned hallucination his brother had seen and tell him to forget it all. But he was trapped in a net made of Louis’ gaze and Louis’ words and the foreign and frail honesty he had just witnessed. 

“I’ll think about it,” he finally said.

That was encouragement enough for Louis, who pulled away and stood, leaving Philippe to shiver at the sudden cold air.

“Good. That’s better than a no. Enjoy your bath, brother.”

Whatever heat had been in the water had evaporated, swept away along with Louis’ exit. Philippe took in a deep breath and exhaled, hoping to push out whatever had taken hold of him. He glanced down.

Oh no.

Brushed a hand between his legs.

Fucking hell, he was _hard_. This… was not a good development.

“Out!” he barked at the maidservant who had scurried back in. She did not return for another hour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your kind words! This fic is my de-stressor while I'm getting ready to move, lol.


	3. Revelations in the Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes a bit of a scene from episode 1x09.
> 
> I've been busy preparing for my move (going to my new apartment tomorrow) so this chapter took longer than I expected to finish.

Philippe remembered one particular stormy night when he was seven years old. The rumbling of thunder sounded to his little ears like a stampede of army horses trampling across the sky. This, coupled with the bullet-like pelts of rain pounding his windows kept him wide awake, sheets tucked up to his chin.

He did not hear the lazy creak of the doors open, or the light padding of bare feet making their cautious way towards the bed. It wasn’t until Philippe saw a shadow looming in the corner of his eye that he realized he was not alone. He tugged the sheets over his bed with a whimper, only to feel a pair of hands wrestling for control, trying to free him of his cocoon.

“No!” he cried, desperately kicking at the intruder. His legs were restricted, twisted underneath two layers of blankets, but he managed to hit his attacker who let out a small ‘oof’.

“It’s me, you scaredy cat!” a familiar voice exclaimed. Philippe lost the tug of war against his assailant. He felt the sheets slide off his face and he gasped at the sudden rush of cold air.

Louis loomed over him, the tips of his hair brushing Philippe’s nose. He wrinkled it, fighting the urge to sneeze.

“Why are you here?” he asked, voice hitching into a high whine. He had tried of late to pitch his voice lower, to sound like less of a baby. But his heart was still pounding from his recent fright and he had fallen back into his childish ways. He waited for the inevitable teasing his brother would undoubtedly inflict.

“I can’t sleep,” Louis said. 

Philippe blinked. No teasing. No pinching of his ear. No threat to tell all to Henriette later. He was merely jostled to the right of his bed as Louis slid in next to him. He pulled the sheets around them both and curled on his side. His eyes were wide and unblinking, fixed on Philippe’s face.

“You can’t sleep either.”

Philippe frowned. “How do you know?”

“You don’t like storms. You’ve never liked them.” Louis shifted onto his back, gazing at the high ceiling. 

In the dark of night, the shadows of outside branches skittered across it, plaguing Philippe’s imagination with visions of long-fingered monsters ready to steal him away. He could never admit this aloud, however. Especially not to his annoying older brother, even when he had the sense to come to him in his most frightened moment.

“You don’t know that!” he said defiantly. 

“Yes I do,” Louis said in that insufferable know-it-all tone. The one that spoke of his knowing best simply by being older. The one that he used to remind all that he was a future king. “I’m your brother. I’m supposed to know these things.”

Philippe wanted to retort that this was nothing but hot air and posturing, but his young mind did not yet know the words. And then Louis’ hand slid into his and gripped it tight. Philippe squeezed back reflexively, the reply he was scrambling to find dying half-formed in his head.

“Storms aren’t as scary when you’re not alone,” Louis murmured.

Usually Philippe hated when his brother was right. But he kept quiet in this instance, relieved at having someone to keep his terrors at bay. His brother’s hand was like an anchor keeping him from washing adrift in his fears. It was a rare moment between them, quiet save for the rumbling storm, where they took comfort in each other’s presence.  
A sudden flash of lightning streaked across the room and Philippe sat bolt upright. The rolling thunder kept beating like a distant drum, and the rain still padded against his windows. But this was not his old room at Saint-Germain. There were no toys piled high in the corners, no storybooks left open on the rug. He was in his bed at Versailles, a grown man still startled by thunderstorms. The faint pangs of his memory-dream surrounded him like a thin fog, gradually ebbing into nothingness with every breath he took.

Philippe slipped out of bed and padded towards the windows. He pressed his forehead against the cool glass and reveled in the light relief. The sky outside was a muddy grey, obscured by tree branches swinging wildly in the wind. The storm was nowhere near its end; it looked like it would be a day spent indoors.

He did not want to think on the dream, but it came back unbidden to his mind’s eye. If he thought of it, he would think of his brother, and then he would think of his reaction after their last meeting during his bath. 

What had Louis said or done that had been so different? He had moved in close, looked at Philippe with his usual intensity. Asked of him yet another favour. 

It was that one moment, Philippe thought. The moment when Louis spoke of his vision of him, telling him what to do. Fevered men often dreamt up what they feared and wanted, their illnesses laying their hearts bare. Louis had, in his most vulnerable moment, thought of his brother. Had needed his guidance. And he had apparently listened. It filled Philippe with a ruthless sort of pleasure, one that warmed him within his deepest core. He turned his cheek, pressing it against the glass with a low exhale.

He had gotten hard from the idea of having his brother listen to his words, even if it had come from a hallucination. That was all there was to it; a rush of power and authority, the very things denied him as a secondborn. He had reacted similarly on the battlefield when he had been the head of an army of ten thousand, each man listening to his commands as he had galloped headfirst into an exploding terrain of mud and blood. Philippe comforted himself with his newfound reasoning, even found relief at having dreamt of his childhood rather than the plagues that were his wartime nightmares. The last storm had woken him with sounds reminiscent of distant canon fire, and he had spent the rest of the night by the dimming fireplace, downing wine with trembling hands.

“Enough,” Philippe whispered harshly to himself. He would think no more of it; it had happened and no one would ever know. As for his brother’s etiquette request, he would give himself another day before considering it in earnest.

Unfortunately, the Chevalier had the untimely nerve to bring it up as they sat across from each other during breakfast. Philippe’s appetite was barely there and he moodily rolled a grape around on his plate.

“What better way to keep everyone under control than by dictating their every word and movement?” his lover spoke, hands tucked under his chin. “It’s brilliant.”

Philippe made a big show of rolling his eyes. “If you say so.”

When the Chevalier went to fetch paper and a quill, Philippe’s heart sank. His hopes of putting it off for another day were no longer on the horizon.

“My darling,” the Chevalier said, straddling the chair next to him and grinning with his permanent mischief, “We are going to turn the nobles of Versailles into obedient servants.”

His words echoed Louis’ from the other night, citing how they would dictate manners of address, of speech, of dining, of every single thing one could possibly do in their waking hours. 

“You’re mad,” Philippe told him incredulously.

The Chevalier stroked his chin with the feather end of his quill. “Let’s be mad together.”

He spoke in the low, seductive tone he used to get Philippe out of his breeches and Philippe smiled despite himself. Their plans were interrupted as they were soon summoned to a game of cards in one of the many grand halls of the palace. The sheet of paper was left blank on the table.

The courtiers were confined indoors for the day, which led to a large party of games spread across several tables. Philippe had been coerced by the Chevalier to join a group that included Rohan and Madame de Montespan. His losses piled up with every round, but he kept playing as a means to distract himself. He half-heartedly listened to the chatter around him, preferring to let his lover do most of the talking. 

Rohan was grinning for ear to ear, his card hand held close to his chest. “Another win for me. I seem to be reaping the benefits of this inclement weather.”

“If the rain keeps up, you will have won all of my money by three o’clock,” the Chevalier exclaimed, “Darling, you wouldn’t mind lending me a few livres, would you?”

When Philippe gave him a look, he turned away with a murmured ‘never mind’.

“Perhaps you could make this request from family instead?” Rohan nodded his head at the next table over where Madame de Clermont was sitting.

The Chevalier glanced at her uneasily and cleared his throat. “No… No, I couldn’t possibly bother my dear cousin about gambling money. I’ll simply win it all back once the sun returns.” 

“A little rain is good for the plants,” Madame de Montespan chimed in as she laid down a queen of hearts. “His Majesty’s gardeners are more grateful for a day in than we all are, I’m sure.”

“Who knew you kept his Majesty’s gardeners in your thoughts?” Rohan asked teasingly. 

“Of course I do. A man who knows his way around topiary is to be admired. I wouldn’t trust just anyone to trim my hedges.”

“Is that why the king spends so much time with his head gardener?” Philippe muttered lightly.

“That would explain his affinity for a well-watered garden, yes.” Montespan hid her grin behind her cards. “I can attest to his green thumb.”

Philippe had long since tired of hearing about his brother’s exploits in the bedroom. But the marquise was forward and confident with her words. He could see why Louis liked her.

The sound of the hall doors opening caused everyone to turn their heads. Bontemps strode in, followed by the king himself. Philippe’s hand twitched under the table, fighting the urge to get up and leave without a word.

“Please don’t stop on my account,” Louis said, “I’ve come to join you for a while. The rain has canceled my need to review the garden’s upkeep today.” His eyes roamed from table to table. “But I see that this is a full hall.”

“We shall set up another table for His Majesty,” Bontemps announced.

“That won’t be necessary, he can have my seat.” Philippe abruptly stood up and pulled out his chair. “I am done for the day.”

“You don’t have to leave,” Louis said to him.

Philippe’s answering smile was grim. “I don’t believe luck is on my side today and I’d rather not give in to more ill fortune. No, please stay,” he added when the Chevalier made to get up, “The king deserves a full table to play with.”

He left the hall without a backward glance. 

He thought he had reasoned with himself. That he had put his reaction behind him. But the moment Louis had walked into the room, his shame engulfed him like a cresting wave. 

Philippe felt as if the walls were closing in on him, ready to bury him under a mountain of marble, glass, and all things sharp and cold to the touch. He barreled into his apartments and flung open the balcony doors, stepping into the rain and the cold air. He shut his eyes against the incoming tide of every emotion, good and bad, threatening to overwhelm him. His breathing was heavy and audible to his ears over the low rumble of thunder and the unending pattering of rain. He wanted to drench himself in the storm. To wash away the memory of that night.

He couldn’t stay here anymore. He would to return to Saint-Cloud, burrow in his own bed and scrub himself of any lingering effects from this damned palace. 

He stood so long in the rain that he began to shiver, but still he did not move. The cold air and the feel of wetness on his skin, seeping from his clothes into his very bones, were like a dull pain that kept him grounded in the present.

“Are you trying to catch a cold?”

The voice of the one he had run away from earlier. Philippe turned around, his vision obscured by wet strands of hair clinging to his cheeks and nose. He could still make out Louis’ stern form standing behind the balcony doors.

“Come back inside, brother.”

Philippe didn’t. Instead, he tilted his head up to the clouds, offering himself up to more rain.

“Why?” he asked.

Louis’ jaw tightened. “Because you’ve never liked storms. Is this how you wish to behave? As if you were still a child?”

He stepped out into the rain, heedless of the dampening ruin it would wreak on his finely tailored clothes.

“There. Now we are both wet and miserable. That is what you want, isn’t it? For us to be on equal footing?”

Philippe chuckled bitterly. “You would never allow that to happen.”

“You think that I keep holding you back,” Louis said, “But it is your own jealousy and resentment that blinds you.”

“I have bled on the battlefield for you,” Philippe hissed, “And you snatched my victory from me by coming in and announcing peace.”

“The glory of war is still yours, brother. You have earned the respect and admiration of the army.”

“And now you would have me play with etiquette,” he said angrily, “Tell me, what glory is there in this place that won’t ultimately be yours?” He turned away, eyes fixed on the horizon. “I’m going back to Saint-Cloud.”

“You can’t.”

“You don’t need me here.”

“Of course I do.” Louis slid a hand behind Philippe’s neck and held him there, thumbs tucked behind his ear. “The role of king asks that I put away my needs and desires for France. Everything I have done, everything I have made you do, has been for the good of our kingdom. But having you by my side is the one desire that I am able to indulge in. It is what I want.” 

He paused briefly, eyes roaming over Philippe’s face, his expression reminiscent of that night. Philippe was transfixed, rooted to the spot by a burning heat in the pit of his stomach.

“Deep down, I believe it is what you want as well.”

The words were like an icy dagger tinged with truth, plunging into Philippe and stabbing at the buried part of him that he could never admit to.

“You don’t know what I want,” he said heatedly.

Louis’ responding smile was infuriating and intoxicating. “I am your brother. It is my duty to know these things.”

He leaned forward until their breaths mixed together, lips close enough to brush. Philippe felt a soft thumb caress the nape of his neck. He locked eyes with his brother and knew in an instant that he had lost this silent battle. His resentment, his anger, his _desire_ … he was weak to all of them.

“Let us put aside duty between us in this moment,” Louis murmured, “This is what we both want.”

“This is folly,” Philippe replied weakly, a last attempt to salvage his dignity.

“Perhaps.”

“It is wrong.”

“Then we shall be each other’s confessors.”

Philippe was the one who moved first. He leaned forward until their lips pressed against each other, a gentle yet firm first kiss. His mouth was open, but only slightly, sucking in the breath Louis exhaled into him. His brother’s lips were soft and unchapped, as he had expected. Accustomed to wine and succulent foods, never subjected to long harsh weathers or thirst. They moved against his, pliant and wanting, and something in Philippe burst. He snaked his arms around his brother’s shoulders and pulled him closer. They nipped at each other, heedless of the rain, of the palace, of every hurt and hug and harrowing memory they had yet to talk of between them. Their touches were tame, but Philippe knew that his brother’s more feral urges were seeping out. He could feel it in the almost clawing tightness of his grip, in the firmness of his slow kisses. And he felt that same urge within him, simmering beneath the surface, ready to pour forth if he let it. There could be no ignoring it now.

Later, when Louis had left (slipping through the more secluded hallways to avoid causing a scene with his appearance), he stood in the middle of his bedroom, eyes fixed on the wall as his clothes formed a small puddle on the carpet. That was how the Chevalier found him, ready to bemoan the lightness of his pockets.

“Good God, what on earth possessed you to go outside?” he exclaimed.

When Philippe said nothing, the Chevalier approached him and ran his hands over his limp cravat. “Come, let’s get you out of these clothes.”

Philippe gripped the front of his shirt tightly, nearly startling him off his feet.

“Get your paper and quill,” he said, voice rough.

The Chevalier glanced down at his best linen twisted around Philippe’s fist, his brows knitted with wariness. “Why?”

Philippe pulled him close, breathing heavily. He could feel a slow burning fire, spreading through every inch of him, scorching him as if he had touched the sun. 

“We are going to write the rules of this place.”

Minutes later, the Chevalier was lying flat on the bed, breeches pulled down to his ankles as Philippe rode him naked. A sheet of paper lay by his head, half covered in hasty scribbles to be copied down properly later. He had no head for rules at the moment, not when his cock was buried to the hilt within his beloved Monsieur, who showed no signs of stopping his torment.

“Dining rules,” Philippe breathed through the quill clenched in his teeth. He rolled his hips jerkily, wringing every ounce of coherence out of the Chevalier.

“No forks,” his lover gasped, “No forks at the table… Knives and—God, keep doing that—knives and hands only.”

Philippe leaned over and messily scribbled on the parchment, his lines jerking with every thrust of the Chevalier’s hips. He turned his head and bit into the other man’s neck, drops of rain and sweat rolling down his back. He squeezed around the Chevalier’s cock and did not think of blue eyes, of long dark hair, of the heat and musk of the balcony. He did not think of memories of storms long past, of a hand squeezing his own. He wrote and fucked and did not think of his brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's read so far! I hope I'll be set up at my new place soon so I'll have more time to write.


	4. In a Brother's Hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been busy settling in my new place, so it's been a while. But I found time for another chapter! Have some light smut.

The builders had made steady progress on the western wing of the palace in the past few months. The scaffolding was slowly being taken down as brick upon brick, the magnificence of Versailles climbed higher before their very eyes.

Philippe often passed them by on his way to the gardens, watching the men toil away on their precariously perched beams. The greenery around him was an artificial creation, peppered with pagan god statues as the only witnesses to his solitary walks. Once or twice, he had come across the old gardener Louis often liked to speak with, pushing around a large wheelbarrow filled with branches. He stopped him one day and asked him what it was they talked about.

“I’m not sure I should say, even to you, Monsieur,” Jacques said, “It’s mostly philosophical debate.”

“Does he talk battle tactics with you?” Philippe asked, eyeing his metal arm.

Jacques tapped on it thoughtfully. “Sometimes. I’m sure you could ask him, Monsieur. I don’t think he’d have any reservations answering your questions.”

 _That is where you’re wrong_ , Philippe thought. He had no plans of asking Louis anything. In fact, he had been avoiding him whenever possible. To his relief, Louis did little to acknowledge him whenever duty obliged them to be in the same room, though never by themselves. With at least several ministers and courtiers between them, Philippe found that he could tolerate it.

Perhaps they had to let time distance them from the incident. Return to their old ways as if nothing had ever happened, no doubt for the best. He should not have kissed first, should not have let Louis’s honeyed words ply him so. Then he would not keep waking up at night hard as a rock, lips still tingling from his brother’s dream kiss, heart pounding with terror. Louis had always been his torment, but never like this.

He needed to ride out beyond the palace grounds and escape the suffocating cloud that surrounded him. He needed to lose himself in the woods and forget, even for just an afternoon, who he was. Who he was forever tied to.

Luck was not on his side however, for as soon as he had resolved to saddle his horse for a ride, the palace was locked down on the king’s orders. None could enter or leave beyond the gates. That was when he had burst into Louis’s chambers, white-hot anger momentarily overriding his shame.

“You had a man in custody who tried to kill Henriette and now he’s escaped from prison?”

His voice was almost a hiss, oozing venom from every syllable. Louis had his back to the doors, hands clasped behind him. When he turned around, his jaw was as tight and rigid as the line of his shoulders.

“He failed. We caught him before he could do anything.” He pinched at the bridge of his nose, taking unsteady steps towards the window. His hand dropped with a heavy exhale, blinking against the sunlight facing him. “But yes, he escaped. Somewhere within these walls lies the person who helped him. There is no way he could have done it on his own.”

Philippe slammed the doors behind him and marched in, slipping easily into his old angry skin. It was easier to do this, to unleash upon his brother and embrace the righteous ire. It was gut-churning, but it was familiar.

“I knew it. I knew you were sending her on a death mission. What if they had another man on the job? What if he’s lying in wait on the road right now?”

“Calm yourself.”

“You think we’re just pawns for you to play with as you please, don’t you? This is not chess, you can’t sacrifice her for some broader plan you have in mind. There are lives at stake!”

“You think I don’t know that?” Louis retorted, his voice getting equally as heated, “My head of security has failed me and we don’t know whether the assassin is still within the palace grounds. I’m trying to ensure the safety of everyone at court so please, brother. Do not antagonize me right now!”

Philippe bit his tongue for all of two seconds before he attacked again. “What about Henriette?”

“She’s safe. My scouts have reported her boarding the ship at Calais a few days ago. She will have arrived in London by now.”

Philippe’s shoulders slumped in relief. His anger slowly ebbed, giving way to a fatigue in his bones he hadn’t expected to feel until old age.

“I have sent for my son,” Louis continued, “He will be coming to stay here for a time.”

Philippe blinked. “Is that wise, given the circumstances?”

“I’d feel better having him close. We don’t know how many of my dissidents are in Paris or how easily they may have access to him. Perhaps the more rural air will do him good.” Louis indulged in a small smile. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to see his favourite uncle again.”

“I’m his only uncle,” Philippe deadpanned.

“That’s not true. He has an uncle on his mother’s side.”

“A boy his age whom he’s never met.”

“And thus, you are his favourite.”

He came to stand next to Louis by the windows with a quick, exasperated shake of his head. The view was free of any construction, filled instead with swaying trees and sunlight rays spilling into the room. Every morning, the king awoke to the light of the dawn sun, bathing in it like the confident prick that he was.

“This is why it’s vital to all of us that you write up the etiquette rules for Versailles,” Louis said, “I can’t let any of the snakes among us slither away. For the good of France and our family.”

“I know. That’s why I’ve been working on it. With the Chevalier.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” he replied with a smile. He made no mention of his lover’s involvement and clapped him on the shoulder. 

Philippe became acutely aware of their proximity now that duty had been dispensed with. He felt it again, that sharp spike of dual shame and arousal. The anger returned as well, bubbling at a low heat. He was being dangled on a string, pawed about by a blue-eyed cat.

“I thought it best to give us time and space to reflect,” Louis said, startling him from his turmoil. 

“Yes, very wise.” His voice was brusque and low. His cravat felt inexplicably tight and hot around his neck.

“And upon reflection, I’ve concluded that it was enjoyable for both of us.”

Philippe closed his eyes against the world. “You enjoy tormenting me, you mean. We’ve crossed a line, brother. Perhaps you were merely toying with me and I’m the only one who’s been tossing and turning every night, wracked with guilt.”

“Guilt over what?” Louis eyed him steadily, unblinking. “You kissed me. I didn’t rebuff you.”

“Stop.” Philippe pointed at him, jaw tightening. “Whatever tales you’re about to spin to make this seem inconsequential, I won’t listen to any of them. You may think you’re above all reproach but even a king cannot escape God’s judgment.”

“The dreams I saw when I was ill were God-sent, of this I am certain!” Louis said with conviction.

He let out a bitter, disbelieving laugh. “Am I to trust in your delirious visions? Whatever game you’re playing at, I refuse to be a part of it. Not this time.”

“This is no game.”

“Regardless, I’ve had enough.” He turned on his heel and made for the door, only to be pulled back by tightly gripping hands and wheeled around, with a “No, Philippe!” ringing in his ears.

He was pinned down by his brother’s unearthly blue eyes, dimly aware of two hands cradling his face. He couldn’t remember the last time they had called each other by name. Louis had spoken it with a low but intense urgency, his voice wrapping itself around Philippe’s body just as tightly as his arms had. 

Louis’s heavy breathing surrounded his senses, low and deep, piercing every part of him. Philippe was open-mouthed as well but kept his breath inside his lungs, afraid to make the slightest sound. He held it in until his chest started to hurt, until he almost hoped to pass out and be spared this torture. Then Louis’s fingers dug into his cheeks and he exhaled sharply.

“I am not truly safe here, nor would I be in Paris, or anywhere else. The crown on my head makes me a target. I have been marked by dissidents since I was a child. Who can I really trust anymore?” 

He leaned forward, touching their foreheads together. Philippe’s hands hovered over his, desperately searching for the will to snatch them off his face. But he could not. 

“I know I can trust you, brother. You are of my blood. We have known each other long before we had to worry of titles or wars. Tell me, is my trust misplaced?”

Philippe struggled to regain his voice. He managed out a few ragged breaths, but his barbed tongue was lost somewhere in his mouth. He was caught as always, trapped within his brother’s hands and heat and words. Terrified that for the first time in his life, he didn’t want to break free.

“Do you hate me?” Louis nudged their noses together, brushing them ever so slightly. Philippe caught a whiff of the perfume that he practically bathed in every morning and nearly coughed. “Or do you love me, as all brothers should?”

“I don’t know,” he confessed, feeling his strength crumble. “Both, perhaps.”

Louis was looking at him through lowered eyelids now, his gaze no less hypnotizing than before.

“I need you,” he murmured, “Do not leave me here among the wolves.”

It was those three words that tore Philippe asunder. Spoken with the barest hint of a plea, but he had caught it with his sharp ears. Louis _needed_ him. His years of yearning for purpose, for becoming indispensable, of wanting control… he could hear it all in the smallest breath of his brother’s voice. Whether he would turn back on his need in the future was far from his mind, for right now he was hard in his breeches and aching.

Louis was the one who kissed first this time, a soft pressing of lips that sent fire running down to Philippe’s very center. He pushed back with more ferocity, grabbing at his brother’s arse with both hands and pulling their bodies together. He would not be gentle. Louis gasped into his mouth and quickly responded in kind, running his hands wildly over his back, his hair, his face. They kissed as if they would be parted at any moment, running their tongues over teeth and lips and gums. An unknown force had them magnetically pressed together, and neither had the strength nor the will to pull away.

Philippe pushed Louis against the wall and braced his hands on either side of his head, pinning him flat with his chest and his hips, rolling them forward so he could rub his cock against any part of his brother within reach. Louis tipped his head back, mouth open and panting, and pulled at Philippe’s waist to bring him even closer. His hands slid around and down, fumbling with the buttons at the front of his breeches. Philippe dropped his hands to do the same, palming frantically at the hard outline forming behind his brother’s silken pants. He tugged at the laces with hurried, clumsy fingers while Louis squeezed him briefly. Fingers dipped beneath newly loosened pants and Philippe closed his hands around a cock, hot and hard and pulsing. His brother’s cock.

His own was freed moments later, pulled out of its confines and into the cooler air of the room. Louis’s palm, soft and unblemished, free of any callused roughness of hard labour, slid over it in smooth strokes. Philippe moved in close again until he could bury his face in his brother’s neck, until their chests were flush and their cocks could brush against one another. They thrust slowly, reveling in the forbidden friction, in the hurried and uncoordinated way their hands wrapped around both of them, running from base to head, rubbing and squeezing and stroking. 

The rings on Louis’s fingers scratched at Philippe’s skin. He hardly noticed, for he was being kissed once more, lured in by his brother’s tongue. The wave of release was slowly building between his legs, a growing tempo of pleasure that felt all the more intense in its forbidden existence. Louis furrowed his brow, head thudding against the wall as his movements became more frantic. Philippe tugged at his hair to expose his neck and clamped his mouth around his jugular, sucking the salt out of his skin. He would bring his brother to the edge with his body. He would make the Sun flicker, completely at his mercy, for just a few moments.

Louis came first, his body jerking unsteadily, still trapped against his brother’s. His voice was caught in his throat, coming out in sharp little croaks like he had forgotten how to breathe. His pupils were blown wide, electric and unblinking, catching the light of the sun that fell upon them. Philippe felt his seed coat his fingers and hurriedly stroked himself to find his own release, when Louis closed a hand over his own, running a thumb over his slit. He jerked his head up, taken by surprise. Louis was looking at him, open-mouthed and flushed pink. His usually impeccably combed hair was in disarray and fanned messily around his shoulders. He kept up his stroking of Philippe’s shaft, the left corner of his mouth twitching upwards, and Philippe was lost. The wave crashed over him, flooding his nerve endings with numbing tingles, cock shooting out thin white spurts across his brother’s knuckles. He groaned loud and long, the opposite of his brother’s stuttered gasps. He felt everything at once, filled to the brim with a painful emotion he could not name. And then it ebbed, along with the last vestiges of orgasm, leaving him breathless and shaking. Louis brought their faces together, closing his eyes as he did so. The heat between their bodies burned, tempered by the light sheen of sweat that misted over their skins. Philippe didn’t want to move. The warm silence between them was a strange comfort, perhaps enhanced by the pleasant fatigue now settling within him. Later, he may be filled with regret, or anger, or perhaps even indifference. But not now. 

It was a while later before they cleaned and tucked themselves back into order, combed their hair and straightened their clothes to an acceptable level of regality.

“And what do we do now?” Philippe asked, breaking the silence first.

Louis looked up from adjusting his cravat in the mirror, eyes questioning.

“Shall we say that we succumbed to a momentary fit of madness? Gotten it out of us once and for all?”

Louis answered him with an enigmatic smile. Deep inside of him, Philippe hoped that the answer would be no. He had succumbed, but so had his brother. For a brief moment, he had forgotten that they were king and king’s brother. He had seen those blue eyes he had chased after and been chased by all his life, lost and open at his hands. They had taken control of each other, pushed and pulled by their own wills, at long last in synch. Sinful but unstoppable. Intoxicating.

Louis approached him, calm and straight-backed once more, as if he had not come undone earlier. But Philippe had the memory etched within his mind’s eye.

“I think we’ve only just begun.” He leaned down and kissed him softly. “You put yourself completely in my hands. I’m not sure you’ve ever done that before.”

“As did you,” Philippe replied.

“Did you like it, having a king at your mercy?” Louis grinned. “Having your brother at your mercy?”

He wouldn’t lie. “I did.”

Louis ran a quick finger across his lips. “Then we shall have to try it again.”

Philippe felt a little thrill at those words. He would never admit it aloud, however. His brother had had enough pleasure from him today.


	5. The Cloud and the Sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this is late. I apologize. My job search keeps on trucking so I got a bit distracted. Have some more smut.

“What about the King’s morning ritual? What if we put him on display like a peacock?”

“And how do you suggest we do that?”

“Make it mandatory for the nobles to watch him get dressed for the day. Turn it into an elaborate performance.”

Philippe snorted, pulling the covers tighter around him. “He would enjoy that far too much, though the idea has merit. It would let him take note of who is present.”

He was lying in bed beside the Chevalier, both of them curled on their sides and facing each other. Tonight was not a night for passionate love by the firelight. Still, there was pleasure to be gained in quieter moments. Here was where he could find tranquility and rest from the day’s demands.

“I’m sure he’s very pleased to know of the progress we’re making on his soon-to-be established rules.” The Chevalier smiled and cupped his cheek.

The words stung at Philippe's heart. His mind had strayed many times to his encounter with Louis, guilt and desire warring within him with such force that he was certain his body would rip in two one day. They had rarely been alone together long enough to do anything more than exchange heated glances, and Philippe found his frustration mounting.

He had gone to the private royal chapel yesterday to pray for release from this incessant need. Louis, in his insufferable timing, had chosen that moment to arrive, and knelt beside him. He had bowed his head and clasped his hands, the very picture of solemn piety, while his legs spoke a very different language. They pressed against Philippe’s, rubbing back and forth from calf to ankle.

“If we are to debase ourselves, the least we can do is to avoid doing so where God is most vigilant,” he had hissed, his entire body tensing up.

Louis had smiled and moved his leg to an acceptable distance. “I wouldn’t dream of doing anything in here. I’ve come to follow your example and unburden my soul.”

And if he were to drive his brother mad with his proximity, it was merely passing intent. 

Philippe covered the Chevalier’s hand with his own, forcing himself back to the present. It wouldn't do to stew in his usual melancholy, not when he could be at peace in his own bed.

“I love you,” he said, the first time he’d spoken the words aloud since the Chevalier had been freed.

His lover looked at him with surprise. Then his eyes softened. “Darling, you’ve no idea what it means to hear that. Sometimes I fear that you still—”

“I still believe that what you did was worse than a mistake,” Philippe cut him off sharply, “And I meant my threats if you ever did something like that again.”

He wound his legs around the Chevalier’s waist and pulled him close. “You’re going to have to spend a lot of time convincing me you’ve changed.” He brought their faces together, running his lips across the Chevalier’s chin. “Do you think you’re up to the task? I warn you, it’ll be much more demanding than writing out etiquette rules.”

The Chevalier rolled them around until he had Philippe pinned to the mattress, holding on to his wrists and squeezing his waist between his knees.

“As Monsieur wishes,” he said with a grin.

 

Louis had summoned him to his private quarters in the middle of the day. Philippe kept his face impassive as he walked, a subtle art he had nurtured for many years. Inside he was fluttering with light dread at what awaited him. No doubt his brother would demand another ridiculous task of him and he would have little choice but to comply. There was no gilded corner he could hide in to escape the king’s will.

When the guards opened the doors before him, he was met with a small party of people when he had expected none but Louis (and perhaps Bontemps hovering behind him). The queen was sitting near the door, still as a statue. Her stoic face surpassed Philippe’s own, hiding her thoughts from all present. A necessity, perhaps, when one was married to such a king.

Philippe bowed to her before looking over her head at the young dauphin, fidgeting where he stood while his nursemaid hovered behind him. He looked so small and overwhelmed by the loud opulence that surrounded them on all sides. Louis had a hand on his shoulder and his small smile grew wider when he set eyes on Philippe.

“There he is. Go and greet your uncle,” he said to his son.

The boy hurried over and gave a clumsy bow. Philippe’s answering smile was genuine as he patted his head with affection. He had always been fond of his nephew; the dauphin was a sickly child who spent much time indoors, a stark contrast to the tumultuous and nomadic childhood he and Louis had shared. He was shy and soft-spoken, but his eyes would light up and reveal his heavily concealed enthusiasm whenever he heard stories of swordfights and seafaring journeys. His father’s commanding presence and expectations were doubtless heavy burdens upon his frail shoulders, a pain Philippe knew all too well. Perhaps that was why they got along.

“I have sent for my doctor to check on his health,” said Louis, “To ensure that the trip from Paris did not put a strain on him. I would like you to stay with him while this happens, brother. And then perhaps you could give him a tour of the gardens.”

“Is that all?” Philippe asked.

“What more do you wish to do?”

“Much as I am pleased to see you,” he said to his nephew before looking back up at Louis, “I’m not entirely sure why you’re entrusting me with this. Is his nursemaid not company enough?”

Louis approached him, leaning forward until his hair brushed against Philippe’s shoulder.

“I’ve told you before, you are one of the few I trust completely here,” he said in a low voice, “My son needs a familiar presence with him for the first few days and I shall be too busy to look after him for most of that time. He’s nervous here, but I’m sure you can help him get settled.” 

He pulled back, looking straight into Philippe’s eyes. “If you do this, I will make sure you are rewarded.”

Philippe repressed the shiver. More bait from the cat, he thought. He was being shown his place, set firmly behind a boy who would one day be king. Louis was reminding him that in spite of the change in their personal relationship, he still had to hold him down.

“His majesty is all kindness,” he said bitingly. Did he still not trust him?

The queen chose to remain with him for her son’s examination. Claudine had the dauphin sit on his bed and began to press her hands over his forehead and throat. She paused once or twice to adjust the collar around her neck, fidgeting more than the child she was looking over.

“Why are you dressed like a man?” the dauphin asked.

“Because a woman practicing medicine is not something everyone agrees on,” she replied smoothly, “Fortunately, the king is of a different mind. Still, it’s easier for me to be seen as a man, even if I may not convince everyone. I hope your highness can keep my secret.”

“He has been taking many risks lately,” Marie-Thérèse spoke out of the blue. She kept her eyes on her son, who was vigorously nodding his silent promise to Claudine, but her words were meant for Philippe’s ears. “He hires a woman as his doctor, he sends your wife to negotiate with England… he is putting the nation at stake for this palace.”

Philippe smiled weakly. “I’ve tried to talk him out of some of these ideas, but I think it rather evident by now how rarely he listens.”

She folded her hands in her lap, running her fingers over the rings she wore. “Yet he confides in you more than anyone.” She looked up at him, dark eyes narrowing slightly. “He has been summoning you often lately.”

Philippe’s mouth went dry, his heavy swallow hidden by the layers of cravat wrapped around his neck. _She knows_ , his mind treacherously supplied him with the worst possible thought.

“If I am not to be his confidant, then you are just as good a candidate,” she continued, and Philippe exhaled, “Even the king cannot carry a kingdom on his shoulders by himself.”

“He might not see it that way.” He locked eyes with her, and gave her a small smile. “But I will do what I can.”

After the dauphin had been examined and recommended an extra layer of clothing when venturing outside, Philippe took him on a brief tour of the gardens. He kept a hand on the dauphin’s shoulder, all too aware of the boy’s hesitant gait as they marched down the seemingly endless corridors of the palace. His fearful eyes brightened once they were outside, making rounds by the fountains.

“I’m sure you’ll like it here,” Philippe said as he watched him hold out his hand to capture the spurts of arching water, “The air is purer than what you’re used to in Paris. It will do you good to be out in the woods. I shall take you sometime.”

“And go hunting?” the little prince asked hopefully.

“Perhaps.”

It was promise enough to lighten his mood for the rest of the day, and Louis was pleased to note his son smiling at suppertime as the court gathered to feast. He leaned into Philippe’s ear and whispered: “You’ve done well, brother. Make sure that you’re alone in your chambers tonight.”

Philippe felt a hand brush his shoulder and he crossed his legs tightly under the table to stave off the stab of want that had just coursed through him. 

He feigned a headache not too long after supper and ushered the Chevalier to his own chambers, claiming a desire to sleep alone tonight. He waited in his large cold bed, the tips of his body prickling with nerves. Every sound was magnified in his ears, alert as he was to the slightest creak in the room. The thrill of doing something forbidden and getting away with it was like a rush of warm air filling him with pleasure. It vaguely reminded him of the time he and Louis had stolen pastries from the kitchens of Saint-Germain. But this was a much bigger secret than a few filched sweets. It was something more deeper and more powerful, its very conception filling Philippe’s hands with invisible numbness and _oh_ , he was grabbing at his hardness underneath his nightdress…

The creak of the door had him sitting bolt upright. The figure that slid into the room moved in silent steps, the dim glow of the candle they held shining a light on familiar features. 

“Did you manage to leave Bontemps behind?” Philippe asked.

Louis slowly approached him, pulling his robe tighter around himself. “Of course. Contrary to what you might believe, he does have a sense of boundaries.” He placed the candle holder on a nearby table and sat on the edge of the bed. Philippe crawled out from under the sheets and moved to sit next to his brother. They looked at each other, their features dimly outlined by the small sources of light dotted around the room. Louis bumped their legs together, light and playful.

“Thank you again for looking after my son today,” he said softly, “He was much more at ease after being with you.”

“What am I here for if not to support the king and king-to-be?” Philippe kept his tone light, but his grim line of a mouth betrayed his bitterness. "I think you've made that point quite clear, though I don't understand why you insist on repeating it."

Louis slid fingers into his hair, carding through them in a slow wave. They slid down, trailing lightly across Philippe’s cheek.

“You once told me that it was your duty not to be the cloud in front of the sun. I don’t believe that to be true. A sun that shines for too long brings scorched earth and dust, until all beneath its rays withers away.” His thumb trailed across Philippe’s lower lip, pressing it down with his nail. “It must be tempered by clouds once in a while, to dim its heat with rain and wind.”

Philippe chuckled. “Are you this poetic with your mistresses? I don’t need your honeyed words, brother. We are well past that point.”

“I am telling you how much I need you,” Louis insisted, “That it takes both the sun and clouds to keep all life thriving. I may decide when you are allowed to be in front of me, but that does not diminish your value.”

He leaned in for a kiss, which Philippe deftly avoided. He stood up and faced his brother, head held high.

“Take off your clothes,” he said.

Louis, mouth still slightly open from his failed attempt, raised an eyebrow.

“I trust you know how to undress yourself without any valets.”

Louis let out a brief huff of laughter. “Is that a command?”

“Yes.”

Philippe looked at him expectantly, heart beating painfully against his ribcage. He would be in control tonight, he decided. This was his element, his kingdom, and he would rule over his brother.

Without breaking eye contact, Louis shrugged off his robe and stood up. His fingers found the strings lacing up the front of his nightdress and plucked at them until they fell loose. He bunched it up at the hem and pulled it over his head. He stared at his brother, naked, straight-backed, proud. 

Philippe had to bunch his fists into the back of his own nightdress, drinking in the sight of him standing with as much confidence as he did when wrapped in his most regal finery before the court. Even when stripped bare, he stood like a king, daring all to admire every inch of him. Philippe had seen his brother naked many times, from when they used to swim in rivers as children to walking in on him during his bath. But he was witnessing his nudity with new eyes now, admiring his body as he would a lover's. Louis was less lithe than he, the curves of his muscles more pronounced, firm and proud yet unmarked by any battle or strenuous labour. And he was hard, jutting out from the thatch of dark curls between his thighs.

“Are you satisfied then?” he teased, bringing his legs a little further apart. He was smiling, but his lowered eyes betrayed his want, weakly restrained from springing forth.

Philippe’s reply was to get down on his knees, staring back with equal intensity. He grasped Louis’s hips and pulled him closer until his lips pressed to the underside of his cock. He licked up to the tip, keeping his gaze on his brother, who tipped his head back with a shaky sigh. Philippe felt a thrilling electric surge up his spine; this was something he exceled at, something which Louis had never done. For once, he was the lord.

He felt a hand grip his scalp and push him against hot skin. He took Louis’ cock in hand and slid his lips along its length, moving in one wet stroke to lick at the sides of the head. Once it slid fully into his mouth, he looked up again to see Louis staring down at him, wide-eyed and breathing shallowly. His own cock stirred beneath his nightdress and he sucked hard. He bobbed his head up and down like a ship lost on the waves, his brother’s grip in his hair the one anchor that kept him from drifting. The only sounds to be heard were the soft licks of his tongue and Louis’s increasing pants.

Then, Philippe was abruptly pulled away, cock sliding out of his mouth with a wet pop, and dragged back onto his feet where Louis could kiss him with a hardness that hurt. His left thigh was pulled closer to his brother’s waist, brushing his cock against hard flesh. He kissed back savagely until his teeth scraped against lips and gums and even then, he did not stop. Not until Louis pulled away, clutching his flushed face between his hands.

“You are driving me mad,” he hissed.

“Funny, that is exactly what Cardinal Mazarin’s nephew told me when I was eighteen,” Philippe grinned, taking delight in the way his brother’s grip tightened at his words.

Louis sat on the bed and pulled him onto his lap, slipping his hands underneath Philippe’s gown.

“Cardinal’s nephews are hardly worthy of a son of France. Tonight, you shall have a king inside of you.”

He dipped his fingers in the cleft of Philippe’s ass, rubbing against his hole. He shivered and squeezed tight around them, more aroused than he could properly describe.

“Does this please you?” Louis looked at him, biting down on his lower lip as he continued his ministrations. He was mapping out his body, Philippe thought. He wanted to learn what made him melt, what his weak points were. The fingers moved inside of him with caution but without rest, for Louis had always tried out new things with confidence. He rarely worried over looking foolish.

“Lie down,” he ordered breathlessly. 

He felt Louis’ fingers slide out of him and he clenched, aching to be filled again. Louis did as he was told and dropped his head against the sheets, though he let his hands roam across Philippe’s legs.

Philippe crawled over him, reaching for the bottle he kept in the drawer by his bed and wasted no time in pouring its contents over his brother’s cock. Louis jerked his hips upwards, desperate for more contact. Philippe rubbed the oil thoroughly, coating him until he was slick as Louis pushed up onto his elbows to suck a bruise into his neck.

“I said,” Philippe shoved him backwards, “Lie down.”

“Then hurry,” Louis replied, tugging him closer, “ _Please_.”

The king never begged. He commanded. He declared. He asked with polite deference to mask the imperative in his words, but he did not beg. Philippe didn’t know whether he was genuinely laying himself bare or if he was simply saying what he wanted to hear. Either way it worked, like a current that shot straight to his cock. He straddled Louis’s waist, holding his cock steady as he slowly lowered himself onto it. He hissed against the initial burn, though the sound was drowned out by his brother’s guttural moan. Inch by inch, he enveloped Louis in his tight heat until his entire focus was on the sensation of fullness inside of him.

Louis ran his hands up Philippe’s torso, his own chest rising and falling like stormy waves, powerful and uneven. They both revelled in the tightness and the heat, contact made sweeter by its forbidden nature. He rolled his hips, easing into a rhythmic dance he knew well how to perform. Louis refused to close his eyes, drinking in the sight of him taking control. They moved against each other, unafraid to grip and scratch and push and pull, battling together as they had done their whole lives.

Louis sat upright and thrust harder, wrapping his arms around Philippe and raking his teeth across his shoulder. It was enough to make Philippe dizzy with bliss, laughing at the sight they made. Beautiful pale limbs snaked around bodies until they could not free themselves, twin heads of dark hair tangling together, sweat and shared blood intermingling.

“Don’t stop,” he breathed, voice hitching with every merciless thrust inside of him.

“Promise you’ll stay,” Louis countered even as he obeyed. He clung to Philippe’s sweat-soaked back, his hips jerking erratically. “No matter what happens, promise me you will not leave Versailles.”

Philippe would have promised him the moon if it meant prolonging his pleasure. He rode his brother hard, stuttering out ‘yes’ for he was at a loss for any more words. He didn’t care about this gilded palace or the laced up inhabitants who crowded its halls. He didn’t care about the battlefield or the never ending war of gossip. His only care at the moment was for his brother to fuck him until he could no longer breathe, until he was so wracked with pleasure that he could obliterate all feelings of guilt and sin from his very soul and _oh_ , there it was. His orgasm crashed into him, making his legs shake and his spine arch backwards. He gave himself over to it, to Louis’s fist milking his cock as his body jerked, the rippling sensations vibrating through to his extremities. 

He clenched helplessly around Louis, who could only gasp “Philippe!” as he came in turn, gripping his biceps with painful force and groaning into his neck. Philippe clung to him until his shaking subsided. They slumped against each other, coated in sweat and seed, a heavy and comforting warmth settling into their bones.

Louis fell back against the sheets, pulling his brother down with him for a long, deep kiss.

“You really enjoy having me at your mercy,” he said once they pulled apart.

Philippe brushed away the wet strands of hair clinging to his face. He leaned down until their foreheads touched. “If you grant me the opportunity to do so, I will take it.”

“It is a relief to hand over the reins once in a while,” Louis smiled. “Only to you, brother.”

They awarded themselves a little time to regain their senses, curled around each other like they hadn’t done in years. There was no need for words as Louis ran his fingers through Philippe’s hair, settled into a slow rhythm that would have normally put them to sleep. But it was not to be. The king had to return to his chambers.

Philippe propped himself on his elbows to watch his brother get dressed. “You do realize that if I write you into a strict etiquette routine, it might be more difficult to keep doing this?”

“A worthy sacrifice to make if it means ensuring the safety of all.” Louis threw him a smile over his shoulder. “I’m sure we will find more opportunities.”

"What if this was our only opportunity? What if we are to be ruined?"

Louis schooled his features into his usual cool mask, one he often used to hide his thoughts from prying advisors. "There will be no ruin for us, brother. I will make sure of that."

He left without another word on how exactly he could ensure it, but Philippe had not expected him to. It was enough for now to have this dark secret shared between them. He would take what he could from it and dwell no more on the what ifs. He lay back and stared at the ceiling, wondering if sleep would come to him tonight.


	6. Performances

Madame de Montespan sat next to him, her eyes trained on the ballet dancers performing on stage, though the smirk on her face suggested her mind was elsewhere. They were both seated alongside the king in the front row, with Philippe on his left and the queen on his right. The Chevalier was right behind him, his fingers occasionally brushing along his shoulder.

Unlike the marquise, Louis clearly enraptured by the spectacle. His love for performing had developed at a young age and had only grown with time. Philippe recalled many instances of watching his brother glide about the room in his nightgown, tiny hands grasping at an imaginary partner. He had mocked him then and gotten a pillow thrown at him in response.

“I’m surprised his Majesty is not up there,” Madame de Montespan murmured into his ear, “It’s no secret that he loves to dance. He can command the stage with just a few simple steps, really. Look at him.” She nodded towards Louis, who was leaning forward out of his seat. “Had he not been born king, I daresay he would have become the leader of a theatre troupe.”

“He does have a great need for the spotlight at all times,” Philippe commented wryly.

She rested her chin atop her knuckles, eyes boring into him with a sharpness that almost made him shiver. He felt as if she could read every inch of him, peel away at his layers until he was exposed to her, raw and open.

“He talks of you often,” she said, “And fondly.”

“Does he?” 

“He talked about you the last time he came to me. He was staring up at the ceiling, lamenting how little you trust him. How you fail to understand the future he can so clearly envision for this place.”

Philippe let out a long sigh. As much as things had changed, they remained the same in many ways.

“You have a very unique idea of what constitutes fondness, Madame.”

She chuckled. “He vents because he worries that his only brother doesn’t support him. You should feel fortunate.”

“Is that so?” He snatched the fan from her lap and snapped it open, levelling it up to his eyes so as to hide his smirk. 

Montespan clucked her tongue at him. “Of course. A man does not speak of those whom he dislikes after a night of passion. He holds both of us in confidence, you know. I share in his bed and you in his blood.”

Philippe pursed his lips in an exaggerated pout, though she couldn’t see it. “Who is to say I haven’t shared in both?” he murmured huskily. He aimed for provocation, even to one he knew would not be so easily provoked. If he threw out the notion himself, voiced aloud the absurdity of it, it might calm his thrumming heart.

Montespan leaned in close, gently pushing the fan down. She grinned and whispered: “Who indeed?”

Louis had turned away from the ballet for the first time that evening to glance over at them. They answered him with matching smiles, Montespan reaching over to take back her fan while Philippe plucked at his cravat. If the king wanted a spectacle, then he would not disappoint. He would be the director of this entire palace’s performance.

Bontemps had inspected every letter of the written-down rules under a monocle lens earlier that day. Miraculously, they seemed to pass his silent test and were put into motion almost immediately.

Soon, Philippe found himself standing at the foot of his brother’s bed just as the sun rose to greet him. Louis rustled from his sleep, holding a hand above his eyes with a scowl.

“What are you doing here?” he muttered, and Philippe’s smile was more than a little smug.

“I am here to watch a piece of theatre.”

Louis narrowed his eyes. “In my bedroom?”

“Yes,” he replied, “It’s called the Grand Lever. A comedy of manners with tragic undertones.”

He had promised a performance and had provided the audience for it, currently trickling into the room in a slow line. Dukes and marquis and counts milled around the chamber to fulfill their duty of witnessing the Sun’s rise. Under the new rules, the king’s dressing time took twice as long as before, and his every gesture was now under heavy scrutiny. 

Philippe stood at the front, in full view of his brother as his nightdress was removed. Two valets held a dark curtain in front of him for modesty. His back remained visible and Philippe watched as Louis rolled back his shoulders, loosening his muscles wrapped underneath pale, unmarred skin. He was putting on a show for them all, Philippe knew, but was most certainly preening for him especially.

Louis raised his arms, bent his elbows, clenched his fists, executed every gesture like a choreographed dance. He smiled intermittently as the ritual went on; if he were a peacock, he would have been preening his feathers with utter vanity. 

He was soon fully dressed, and with a final tug of his cravat, beckoned Philippe forward. He slipped Louis’s pocket watch into his hand and turned to stand beside him, gazing at the applauding audience.

“You’ve done well, brother. I’m impressed. Everyone now knows their place.”

“I certainly know mine,” Philippe replied with a tight smile.

“Yours,” Louis leaned into his ear and whispered so none could catch his words, “is in your room tonight, where you will wait for me.”

Philippe couldn’t help thinking that he was being rewarded like a pet for adhering to his master’s wishes. He would’ve been angrier at the thought had he not also felt a pleasurable thrill up his back. God forgive him, he was weak, just as he had always feared.

When his bedroom door opened that night, Philippe was already naked underneath the covers. He was finishing the last of his wine and could feel the heat of it in his cheeks already. His entire body was warm, and it became warmer still when Louis approached.

“Am I to receive my reward for being a good boy?” he asked, “I’ve performed to your expectations.”

Louis rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “If you’re going to be like this, I’ll leave.”

“There’s no need for that. Come here.” The wine was making Philippe bolder. He placed his glass on the table next to his bed and lay back against the pillows, flinging one arm above his head. “You may be the Sun but it is night now, brother. This is my domain.”

“It is mine as well,” Louis said. He approached the bed, fingers trailing across Philippe’s legs hidden underneath layers of blankets. “Or have you forgotten?”

“Show me again,” Philippe replied hoarsely.

He tugged at his brother’s nightdress, all patience gone. There was no need for ritual and ceremony once the sun was gone. This was a secret performance, and it had to be quick. Louis pulled the garment over his head and let it drop to the floor. He leaned forward to kiss him, but Philippe pulled away.

“Shall I have you tonight, brother?” he murmured, “Shall I touch you where none have ever touched you before?”

Louis froze, his previously parted lips tightening into a thin line. Philippe was treading on thin ice, but he dared to push further.

“You’re afraid to give up control,” he continued, reaching up to run his fingers through his brother’s hair. Louis grabbed his hand and sharply pulled it away. He laughed.

“Are you really so worried that I would ever overthrow you? Even after all this time?” He ran his teeth over his bottom lip, wishing he had a bit more wine to drink. His tongue would loosen with more heavy words then. “Perhaps you think you’re not up to the task. After all, how could you compete with me in this?”

Louis flared his nostrils, and that was when Philippe knew he had won. His brother couldn’t bear to lose to him, just as he couldn’t bear to see him earn victory in a war he hadn’t fought in. Louis straddled his lap, squeezing his waist in an iron grip until it was painful.

“Show me,” he commanded in the same tone he used on his courtiers, “Let me see if you can please your king this way.”

Philippe answered his challenge with gusto, pulling and kneading at whatever his hands took hold of, kissing and biting wherever his mouth landed on. He longed to leave a dark red mark, sucked into his brother’s pale neck. But there could be no lingering traces of their union, so he made do with digging his nails into his back, marking him with tiny scratches that could be attributed to any other thing.

And when he finally sheathed himself inside Louis, he hissed at the sudden painful grip of hands on his shoulders. The heat and tightness surrounding his cock was nearly unbearable, like he was melting into the sun itself. Perhaps he was.

Louis was panting as heavily as he, though his furrowed brow and evident grimace betrayed his discomfort. 

“How do you feel?” Philippe asked, grinning. 

Louis dug his fingers into his brother’s back as he lowered his head. “Full,” he answered. He didn’t move.

“If it helps, try to think of it like riding a horse.”

“Yes, I know how it works,” Louis snapped and Philippe grinned even wider. He realized long ago how similar they could be; they goaded each other until tempers flared and emotions burst, and it was an addiction neither could give up. He wanted his beautiful brother to be angry at him. To see only him.

When Louis rolled his hips in gentle, testing waves, Philippe could sense his lingering irritation. It fueled his boldness as he moved faster, rougher. Philippe responded with his own thrusts, until it looked like Louis had forgotten his discomfort and was giving in to enjoyment. 

Their hands slid from the sweat forming on their backs, only to grip onto each other harder. Louis rode him with energy, with that bold and determined authority he always had. There would be more fights in the future, more jealousy and resentment. But there would also be more of _this_ , whatever this was that had manifested between them. And Philippe would demand it of his brother, this unbearable closeness that made him feel everything at once, savour every last drop until the day he could no longer bear it.

Louis clenched around him with such force that he came, white-hot and abrupt, his heart pounding with an emotion he couldn’t give voice to. He kept thrusting until Louis threw his head back with a long cry and gave in to his own little death. Philippe watched him, the way his body drew taught like a bowstring, his glistening body shining in a pale imitation of the sun’s rays, yet no less mesmerizing. 

When he slumped forward, Philippe caught him, tangling fingers in his mussed hair. The hot breath upon his neck slowed with time as they recuperated in each other’s arms.

“Did I impress you?” Louis finally asked.

Philippe scoffed into his curls. “The last thing you need in your life is more praise.”

“Then perhaps I should ask another question. Did you enjoy it?”

He shifted a little so they could look at each other and pursed his lips in feigned thought. Louis wore his ever-common self-satisfied smile, and he knew that it would remain there regardless of his answer. Even so, he wanted to be truthful.

“Yes.“

“Good.” Louis kissed his chest and remained there, murmuring his next words into Philippe’s skin. “Then I have done my duty.”

-

Henriette returned the next day to less fanfare than she had received during her departure. Louis was quick to whisk her away with his ministers for a full report of her success, though Philippe had managed to catch a glimpse of her beforehand. She had looked healthier and happier than before she had left, practically glowing in the smiles the king bestowed upon her. He hoped that his brother would be kinder to her now.

He didn’t greet her properly until she returned to their apartments, closely followed by her ladies in waiting who were quick to divest her of her traveling cloak.

“Welcome back,” he said once she had been freed, and briefly kissed her. She gave him a small smile in return.

“I hear that you performed well beyond what the king expected,” he continued as she walked to her vanity to freshen up. “The feast he’s preparing in your honour is richly deserved.”

“He told me that you performed just as well,” she replied, “I’m told that there are new rules in the palace that I must learn.” She turned around to look at him, her head tilted to the side as she removed her heavy earring. “Since you were the rulemaker, I trust that you’ll help me.”

He smiled. “Of course.”

They didn’t speak much after that, but Philippe noticed that she looked more at peace now. Perhaps their respective missions had given them both new purpose.

-

He was late for his own wife’s celebratory feast, and for a ridiculous reason.

“I don’t like it.”

“My love, if there ever was an occasion to look extravagant, it would be tonight’s.” The Chevalier dusted off his shoulders, then took a step back with a satisfied smile. “You look radiant.”

Philippe bit back his disagreement, only because they had spent the last half hour bickering and he had resigned himself to wearing this flashy gold costume in order to get on with the evening. The Chevalier had insisted on dressing him like Apollo at his vainest, claiming that he ‘couldn’t go to such a party in his usual dour colours’.

“I’m taking it off the moment we come back,” he warned, fiddling with his too-tight cravat.

The Chevalier laughed. “Oh, I won’t complain about that in the slightest, but for now…” He pulled out a golden mask from the old trunk by Philippe’s bed and presented it to him. “… It is time for you to shine.”

Philippe’s opinion on the ridiculousness of his outfit was further cemented when he encountered his brother on the stairs, dressed exactly in the same costume.

“It would seem we are of one mind tonight,” Louis said.

“This,” he gestured at himself, “Was not my idea. You, on the other hand, I can easily believe you would willingly dress like this.”

“Tonight is for Henriette, so please don’t start.” Louis’s face was hidden behind his own golden mask, but Philippe could tell from his tone that he was amused rather than irritated.

“And after tonight?” he asked, “What happens then?”

Louis approached him until Philippe could see his bright blue eyes shining through the eye holes of his mask, undimmed by the pearls and ribbons surrounding them.

“Whatever we desire, we will make happen,” he murmured, “We command Versailles, and all that transpires here.”

He stepped back and held out his arm. “Come, brother. Let us make our entrance together.”

Philippe didn’t feel the same confidence that Louis did, and he likely never would. But perhaps he didn’t need to; Louis could be confident for the both of them, and Philippe would indulge in this strange and inexplicable place they had secretly carved for themselves without thinking of the future. He would worry another day, when his body wasn’t still thrumming with the remnants of their ardour.

He slid his arm around his brother’s and together they walked into the grand hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured it needed to end with Philippe's etiquette rules happening since that's what I started with, so voilà. A big thanks to everyone who's read and commented up to now and I hope to write more soon!


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